


a lost tiger.

by abovethethroat



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alcoholism, Depression, Gen, Implied Self-Harm, Mental Illness, Mental Instability, Self-Harm, Suicide, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethethroat/pseuds/abovethethroat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan Ross' childhood as told through memories in a shrink's office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a lost tiger.

Ryan knows there's a probability that the sharp smell won't ever leave the fabric, but he keeps the jacket in a secure grip as he makes his way through the streets of the town. He can't be bothered to walk any faster - his legs are wobbly. It doesn't matter that he does this every week, he's just as nervous every single time. It takes him a while to get past the nice woman in the reception and going up in the elevator (he stands and stares at the buttons until he gains the courage to press down _7_ with a shaky finger). When he finally puts his ass down in the lime green chair, he's positive he might heave today's breakfast out of his system, and he thanks his auntie quietly under his breath, he escaped a heavy breakfast today. _Lucky me,_ he thinks. _That makes it easier for Z to clean off the fluffy carpet and the hardwood floor._

When you speak of the devil. The echoing sound of high heels can be heard from the hallway and in through the door, he knows it's her. When the _click-clack_ stops and she can be seen through the frosted glass and the door handle twists, he has splayed out the creased jacket over himself like a blanket - the anxiety always brings along the cold - and tilts his head back as he massages his temples, to ease both the pounding in his head and the nausea.

She greets Ryan and sits down in the identical chair opposite to him. The usual notebook, along with the pen, is put down on the table in-between them. He makes a sound that's supposed to resemble a polite greeting, but he doesn't feel up to it. Not today. The anxiety weighs heavy in his chest, makes it hard to breathe, and his brain is racing. It stands too still but it also moves too quickly at the same time. And for the record, they've been seeing each other every week for the past two years, the politeness would only feel forced and awkward between them. _No thanks._  

Z rests her eyes on him, and he swallows hard. He should be used to this by now, being eyed and getting his feelings and reactions picked apart and analyzed down to the smallest of details. He doesn't think he will ever feel comfortable or less nauseous squished in between these four walls, discussing his internal turmoil. No, if he got to decide for himself, he wouldn't have showed his face near this building in the first place, but if you have an aunt with senses like a hawk there's nothing that can be done about it. If this relative also sees through all of your charades, you've just got to do as she says. _Get help._

Ryan can feel a light hand shaking him, and he returns to reality. Z asks if he is okay, and he replies that yes, he is. It sounds off when the words bounce against the walls. Even he can hear it. WHen she picks up the little notebook and clicks the pen, he sighs silently. _Bring it on._ As usual, she starts off by going far back, to the beginning. He isn't sure if all of his memories from that time are clear, but he tries to remember anyway. Again.

He can recall a period after his ninth birthday, hushed voices in his parents' office and red, glossy eyes. He kept out of the way, he didn't want to risk overhearing even more conversations he was not meant to know anything about. Instead he spent all of his time in his room, surrounded by his black note and sketchbooks. He filled them with interpretations of those tear-filled talks. The dark words strung together (mixes of the whispers he had caught and his own imagination) were kept hidden, in case some curious parent/visitor/relative were to snoop around in his room. The one book he let others catch a glimpse of was purposefully filled with light hearted, false stories of sunshine. Anything to make sure the most private part of him remained private. The dark morphed into a permanent part of his personality, but no one needed to find out about that.

His parents forced their cheek muscles into fake smiles to make it look like they weren't completely torn apart and crushed inside when he showed them his works of sunshine. They called him _the god of arts - the fantastic/talented/goodhearted/wonderful son -_ and forced laughs out their mouths that chimed flatly in his ears. In return, he did the exact same thing and pretended to take no notice of the smell of alcohol that radiated from his father. Book after book was filled with his demons, in attempts to trap them and cage them in every time the covers were closed. As the stack of books grew and the book shelf seemed to shrink, more and more monsters slithered out from between the lines and brush strokes, they didn't keep to the books anymore. _The ruthless tiger leaves gashes in its path,_ he wrote. That's the only poem he remembers from those days. The only one he's still got. _The ruthless tiger never lets go._

As the days, weeks, months, years ticked away, he caught sight of his mother less and less. She spent her last living moments in a creme colored room in a bed with a hard pillow, her loneliness and a growing sea of poems written by _the fantastic son_ as her only company. The tiger sharpened its claws and took up more space. His father stopped pretending, and the cans and bottles filled up the larger part of the house. He abandoned his role as a dad gradually through the years, and aunt Dana moved into the guest room next to the stairs on the bottom floor. His auntie was known - among the family - to be the one who arranged all the gatherings, so of course she arranged the funeral, too. Ryan held the farewell speech and gave the world a glimpse of what hid beneath the surface for the first time. He realized his mistake when his auntie started to keep an eye on him and no longer saw him as _Ryan, the fantastic son,_ but as _the broken son in need of help._ He moved the walls closer to himself and steered clear of every little sliver of sunlight, of Dana's offered hand.

He did all he could to escape its vile grip, but the hand got a hold of him at last, whether he liked it or not - _just like the tiger_ \- and he turned into _the problem son_ who couldn't handle his emotions in the right way. Pushed into the same room he is in now with the same woman in front of him, left out to the world and the cold, aunt Dana probably thought that everything would be fine and resolve itself and that Ryan would leave his bad habits in the past and return to being that bundle of sunshine he was what felt like forever ago. She wanted him to sort out the tangled thoughts that had tied knots in his mind. What she never understood was that he wasn't confused. Not at all. He himself felt like he was the only one who saw what was really going on, who could see the entire picture and let the rugged and sharp puzzle pieces fall into place. He could see that his father didn't drink to escape the memory of his deceased wife and the illness that took her away from him. He let the liquid poison pass his lips just because he knew it wouldn't work in the long run. George Ross wanted to see his wife again. And this was the only way he knew how. 

He couldn't get it done and get back to his loved one as soon as he had hoped, though - she put a stop to his plans time and time again. Ryan's father knew that if Danielle still were alive she wouldn't have wanted his journey to end like this, but he did not want to live in a reality without her. Ryan knew of this but couldn't do anything to help. His father had made his decision and he felt helpless. _The tiger claws and claws._ Eight years of misery. _The helpless son_ sunk deeper and deeper, the hand that was extended no longer reached him. Even if he had wanted to grip it in his own, he could not have done so.

The poems and sketches turned into reckless, angry scribblings around the same time as his father found his way home, and the last slivers of sunshine were torn to shreds during one of the many sleepless nights he endured (the tiger's growls kept him up and vibrated harsher than ever against his skull). He couldn't fathom why he hadn't been forced to attend more sessions with Z or to take more of those magic pills, but that probably just meant that he had managed to keep a small splinter of himself from seeing the light of day. At least that was something.

He opens his eyes after keeping them screwed shut and looks up at Z. She tells him that the time's up for today, and he rises from the chair. He gives her a loose hug and lets his orbs wander across the room before he closes the door. He wants to remember the look if it, what he's leaving behind. While the elevator squeaks on its way down to the lobby Ryan inhales the the smell of the jacket once again. It's the only thing he's got left of his father. He pulls it over his shoulders, and that stills his nerves a little bit.

 When he gets to the pier the sun is standing high in the sky and he takes in that unfamiliar feeling. This is all the sunlight he will let himself see. The jacket leaves his shoulders and is folded and put down neatly on the edge of the pier. The paper bag containing the complete collection of his new notebooks (and that only old one) rustles when he rips it apart to gain easier access and lines up the black rectangles on the gray and dirty concrete. He has always taken good care of those books - with the exception of the one the tiger sank its teeth into - but it doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters. The striped beast has won. He has become a tiger himself and wants to feel something other than the burning sensation behind his eyelids. When the books are carefully placed out he sucks in a deep breath - possibly his last one - and steps out on the other side of the railing. _The lost son_ leans outward and lets the wind take a hold of him. He can feel it now, how his eternal homesickness lessens as he collides with the waves. He has found his way home. _The tiger has stopped clawing._


End file.
